Everyone wants to be a superhero.
Or a supervillain, in some cases.
Everyone wants to be special,
To defy the norm,
To be loved,
Praised,
Worshipped.

I’m one of the lucky few who got what they wanted.
But here’s the thing about wishes;
There’s always a twist.
A glitch in the code,
A setback,
A call to reality,
To make us pay for our selfish wants.

What’s my power, you ask?
It’s certainly a good one.
And my curse?
It’s a doozy, I’ll tell you that.

I can’t fly,
I can’t communicate with animals,
Can’t breathe under water,
Don’t have super strength,
And I can’t see through steel.

I have the best power of them all.
I can become Invisible

I can easily slip away from anything without being noticed,
I can watch the world unfurl, completely unaffected.

Thing is, I can’t become visible when I want to.
My power chooses its own schedule.

Meaning…
I’m completely alone, 80% of the time.
I can’t make friends,
Because they can’t see me.
I can’t have conversations,
Because no one wants to talk with a ghost.
I get left behind,
Because no one knew I was there in the first place.

I must be strong.
I have to be.
Because no one will be there for me.
No one wants to care.
No one can.

I talk to myself,
Or watch the world like a show,
Craving to be a part of it.
I know it’ll never happen,
But it’s always fun to dream.

Of being loved,
Wanted,
Noticed,
Acknowledged.
Heck, I’d even settle for being hated,
If it only meant that I would get to know what it feels like,
To be looked in the eye.

Have you ever felt the feeling,
Of being looked through?
Like a window,
Or a spirit?

It starts to get to you, ya know?
You start to think about it,
Start to stop seeing yourself as well.
Suddenly, you don’t even exist.
Not to anyone,
Not even yourself.




Oh, yes.
I am so,
Very,
*Special

I’m disgusting.
I’m afraid of everything.
I’m scared of the dark,
Of my dad,
Of myself.
I’m afraid of living,
But I’m slightly more afraid of dying.

I’ve held that knife,
Felt its cold, sharp edge,
Pressed against my throat
My wrist.
I’ve stared at those pills,
Hours on end,
I’ve even dreamt about them.
I’ve stood atop that building,
Leaning over the edge,
Frozen in place,
Hoping that the slightest of breeze would knock me over the edge.

I’ve wished to die,
Prayed, even.
I’m just too scared to do it.
**** myself
So I sit there, and stare at that wall,
Dreaming of a “tragedy”
That a car will come out of nowhere,
Or that tiny crack will trip me,
Or maybe I’ll even catch something lethal.
Anything that will **** me,
Anything but myself.

I’m so sorry that I’m still alive.
I’m sorry to you,
And to me.

That I’m a coward.

How can the broken fix the broken?
I'm not broken, I'm just fragile.
You were ready to **** yourself just the other day.
It was a moment of weakness.
Tell me you don't wish you had died that day.  Tell me you want to live.
I don't, and I do.
Tell me you won't try again.
...
TELL ME YOU WON'T TRY AGAIN.
I'm not a liar.  I cannot speak that which I'm an uncertain of.
You've been falling for so long you don't even know it anymore.
What are you talking about?
Losing yourself piece by piece so gradually you haven't noticed all that you're missing.
I'm right here.  This is me.  I cannot be missing what does not exist.
Anymore.
You must be thinking of someone else.
You're probably right.  You're just a stranger.  Whoever it is in thinking of died long ago.

When I was four...
I lost my great grandmother.
Didn't know her well,
But it didn't take much to see she was a sweet, kind soul.
I stood in the rain and wind at her funeral,
Clinging to my mothers arms,
Staring at the coffin blankly, because I didn't know what else to do.

When I was eight...
I lost my best friend.
His hair was as fiery as mine,
We played at recess every day.
One day he stopped coming to school,
You only knew where he was if you asked,
That's how his parents wanted it.
He came back, once.
Balding, attached to an IV,
Just to watch us play one more time.
Then he was gone.
I still didn't know what to do.
The school put up a plaque in his name,
And planted him a tree to live on for him.

When I was eleven,
I lost someone who was like a second father to me.
He loved me and my mother,
And we loved him.
I never got to tell him that....
He was an alcoholic.
And, it ******* his heart.
My mom woke up to a dead man,
Took him to the hospital.
That night, she watched him being kept alive by machines,
And was told he had no chance of waking up.
She watched his family and friends make the decision to pull the plug.
I didn't know until later, I was with my biological father.
I didn't see my mom for a week.
I didn't eat or drink that whole time.
I was empty.
I didn't cry until they played his favorite song at the funeral,
A familiar one to me.
I sobbed quietly into my mother's lap,
Trying not to disturb the others.

That night,
I prayed for the first time,
Just to try and talk to him.

When I was fifteen,
A mere four months ago.
Nearly five.
I lost another friend,
Who I wish I knew better.
He battled cancer for a year.
We didn't see him for months on end,
Because he couldn't come to school.
And a month or so after he finally started getting better,
Coming back to school,
He got sick....
And his body couldn't handle it.
At first, I was more worried about making sure my other friends were okay,
And then it hit me.
I stayed with them in the counselor's office for the last half of the school day,
Crying,
Writing to him that I was sorry.
I cried the next day at his memorial,
And then at his funeral.
It still hits me sometimes,
Like waking up from a dream,
To find that life is a nightmare.
And I break all over again.

Just before that,
Another friend of mine,
Told me they only had two years left...
There were problems with a vital ***** of theirs,
And they were worsening.
I've had to secretly bear this,
No one else can know.
I'm waiting for that day to come.

A few days ago,
My current best friend,
My family,
Said they may only have a year left.
Internal wounds that wont heal,
Blood loss,
That's all I can think.
If the doctors can't fix this...
Who can?

Slowly,
I've been losing pieces of myself,
Giving it to them,
Horcruxes, if you will,
And when they leave this world behind,
So does that part of me...
Each person that dies hurts worse than the last,
Because it's just adding onto the pile of pain,
That I can't get over.
I hardly have the strength to hold on to who I am anymore...

*Why can't I be next in line instead?

I give up...
This is like my motto.
But I'm a hypocrite.

I wake up every morning,
Wishing I hadn't.

I'd end things myself,
But I  just freeze every time I come close.

Last time...
I was so weak, I had to make one last call...
And that broke me.
I sat there, pills in my hand,
Too weak to say anything but "I'm sorry" over and over while they begged me not to do it...

I wasted too much time, and the next thing I knew, I'd been pinned down, too weak to scream...
Let me go...*
I'd breathe out those words, almost to quiet to hear...

Then I woke up the next day.
"I love you.  Thank you for being alive."
I actually thought maybe life was worth it,
For a short amount of time...

Now I'm here,
Tears on my keyboard,
Bile tickling my throat,
Wishing I had done it then...


I don't know what else to say.


I can't say goodbye....so I'll see you tomorrow.


I wish that weren't the case.

I'm sorry, guys.
I'm no poet.
I just happened to be on this site because I got on before you had to be accepted.
I can't write poetry for crap.
All these things I write aren't poetry,
I'm just typing out my depressing thoughts,
Hitting enter a bunch of times,
And displaying what a disgusting human being I am to this beautiful community.

Welcome to the party, do you have your mask ready?
Everyone’s dressed like the rich and the famous,
And who knows, some of them may be.
Here’s your chance to get out there and make a scene.
Make some memories with some complete strangers.
Or some old friends, you’ll never know.
Oh, but who’s over there?
Across the room, against the wall,
Quietly chatting away with the tall stranger in a crow’s mask.
That’s me, of course!
Where’s my mask, you may ask.
It’s right here, resting perfectly on my face.
Can’t you tell it’s a mask?
No, maybe not.
That’s because this one was made just for me.
I made it myself.
It’s taken me years to perfect it,
So no one would know when I wore it.
I’m sorry I didn’t get a special mask for the occasion,
I didn’t have the time.
And I’m sorry this mask isn’t as festive as the others.
You see, this mask looks just like me, spare a few minor details.
For example, I’m wearing a bright,
Happy,
Smile.
That’s something you’ll never see on my real face.

Sometimes it seems like I crave this pain
As if it's the only feeling I can know
When I'm "happy"
I feel nothing
Everything seems so perfect sometimes
Leaving me numb
So I leave that perfectness behind
And I search my mind
For an excuse to hurt
To cry
To scream
To quiver
To feel
Something, anything.

At night I lay in my bed.
Sometimes, I shut the lights off, and I think.
With my vision impaired, I begin to think and feel more.

I can feel the darkness

It's like a blanket that hugs every millimeter of my body.
It can be a comfort, but at the time time, it makes me want to scream.
As a human, I fear the unknown.
And also as a human, I naturally cannot see in the dark.

When I just lay there, I can feel the darkness hug me in such a way that I feel paralyzed.
I move my eyes around, hoping to see light, to no avail.

My over-active mind likes to fill in the blanks in which my senses cannot.
I see everything that I fear.

Every little thing I have ever spent restless nights worrying about, is there before me.
The clowns, the murderers, the mythical horrors I remember hearing about around the fire years ago.
They're all there.
They don't move, they don't speak.
They just stand there, as I feel the terror build up inside of me.
I want to scream, I want to run for the light switch, but I am still paralizyed.
So I just lay there in terror until my body decides that it needs to sleep, and I fall into another nightmare.
I say I am afraid of the dark for these very reasons...

But think about it this way.

The darkness is merely a canvas that my mind paints.  And what it paints is controlled by my subconscious.

Maybe, just maybe...

I am afraid of me.